


Always Gold To Me

by MyresLight



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Protective Siblings, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Sibling Bonding, once again i have smashed fluff together with canon-level angst, weaving between one and the other without cause or warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 20:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30128589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyresLight/pseuds/MyresLight
Summary: Carnistir was twenty-five years old when his youngest brothers were born.For the rest of his life, they are there with him.
Relationships: Amras & Amrod & Caranthir | Morifinwë, Amras & Caranthir | Morifinwë, Amrod & Caranthir | Morifinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë/Haleth of the Haladin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Always Gold To Me

**Author's Note:**

> it's feanorian week and by some timezones i'm still on time for caranthir's day. i'm counting that as a win.
> 
> so during the dagor bragollach, caranthir flees with the twins instead of going to himring or meeting up with c+c. this is not necessarily an indication of which brothers he prefers but i am 100% taking it as that.

Carnistir was twenty-five years old when his youngest brothers were born.

He hadn’t been enthused when Nerdanel told them that she was once more pregnant. Curufinwë had arrived fifteen years before and had been the bane of Carnistir’s existence since. They didn’t even need another sibling. Not even grandfather Finwë had six children.

Then Nerdanel had given birth and it was not one brother, but two. The first twins born amongst Iluvatar’s children.

Fëanáro had fretted and worried over the prolonged labour that his wife had suffered through. However, when she once more recovered and the children seemed to be well, he had doted on the twins, telling all about their birth and the strength of his wife for carrying not one, but two babes for a year.

Carnistir tired of the novelty very fast. It was bad enough that Curvo and he were close in age, bad enough that his father clearly favoured his younger brother. Now, two more babies had come along and Carnistir was once more pushed to the side of his father’s attentions.

It would have been better if Fëanáro was cold with him. But every time he came to his father with a problem, Fëanáro immediately dropped whatever he was doing and turned to Carnistir with a bright grin, ready to help.

He couldn’t even hate his little brothers for it. It had just cemented Carnistir’s place firmly within the forgotten middle.

* * *

Carnistir became endeared to Ambarussa when they were two years old; Pityo snatched a toy out of Curufinwë’s hand while Telvo pulled on his hair. Curvo had himself stolen Carnistir’s favourite puzzle the other day, so the development pleased him greatly. Curufinwë was less impressed, and pushed Telvo away, struggling to contend with two toddlers at once.

His voice raised as his frustration mounted, “Stop it! You two are idiots!”

Carnistir had been at the table reading, and on hearing the twins begin to cry, marked his place and went to intervene.

It was clear what had happened, and over both frustration at Curvo as well as defence of the younger two, Carnistir gently squeezed Pityo’s hand to release his grip on Curvo’s hair, before turning to his brother and snipping in, “No they’re not. They’re smarter than you, and nicer. You shouldn’t have snatched.”

Curufinwë hated two things: when his father told him off, and when someone said he wasn’t smart. His face curled up as tears streamed down his cheeks. “You’re just being a bully Moryo! I’m telling Atya!” With that, he ran off down the hall, screaming for Fëanor.

Carnistir sat down opposite the twins, “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Atya it was my fault. Curvo had it coming anyway, this is just me saying ‘thank you’.”

They were two, and shouldn’t understand him, yet the tears stilled and they smiled up at him, immediately setting about crawling into his lap.

His arms bracketed them loosely on instinct. A little bit unsettled, he mumbled back, “Oh. Um…alright.”

When Fëanor eventually entered the room after calming Curvo down, his heart was so softened by the sight of his two youngest sons asleep in his middle-child’s arms, he hadn’t the heart to rebuke them.

* * *

It was a game they had played for a long time, always on the level plains just south of Tirion; the empty area before the woods. Tyelko, Findekáno, Írissë, Angaráto, Ambaráto, and Carnistir. It was the first time the twins had been permitted to join them, partly because their parents were busy that day, entrusting their care to that of their older brothers.

The game itself involved two teams, with the objective of scoring a leather ball that Tyelko had made between two wooden posts. The game was innocent enough in theory, but between Tyelko, Írissë, and Ambaráto, it often turned competitive, then violent.

About an hour into their play, the ball rolled to Angaráto. Taking the opportunity, he aimed to score between the posts, and kicked it with all his strength.

The ball smacked against the wooden beam and rebounded, flying straight into Telvo’s face where he had run up to chase after it. A crunching noise filled the air and then the youngest Fëanárion was on the ground, clutching at his nose as blood dripped onto his shirt, sobs that were half-screams filling the air.

Everyone ran over, but Carnistir reached him first, examining his brother at the same time he yelled at his cousin.

“You idiot! Watch where you’re kicking next time!”

Affronted, and feeling more than a bit guilty, Angaráto immediately lashed back. “I wasn’t _trying_ to hit him, he got in the way!”

“He’s _twelve!_ ”

“Then he shouldn’t be playing with us!”

“I wasn’t going to _leave_ him!” By that time Pityo had started to take large, heaving cries in sympathy and fear at the growing anger.

Tyelko was the oldest there, but after spotting him readying to punch Angaráto, Findekáno swept in to help his cousin.

“Don’t worry Telvo, my father’s an expert at fixing things. We’ll have you back to shape in no time!”

Tyelko spun around, voice and temper raised. “The Void are we taking him to _your_ father. He should go straight home.”

Findekáno went to reply but was shocked when Moryo jumped in instead.

“Father lives further away. I’m not taking Telvo all the way back to our house. We’ll go to uncle Ñolofinwë’s.”

Tyelko was a cross between shocked and betrayed, but the argument had been resolved, and the eight of them traipsed out of the park and down to Ñolofinwë’s house.

When Ñolofinwë opened the door, the sight of his youngest nephew bleeding profusely from his nose was mildly shocking, yet instincts took over and he swept Telvo up, sitting him on one of the kitchen’s benches while dabbing away the blood.

Ñolofinwë was a gracious doctor and even had Telvo laughing by the time they left.

There was a mild panic when the Fëanárions returned home, and Ambarussa were expressly forbidden from playing with their cousins until they were at least eight years older.

Fëanáro grumbled about Arafinwë and ‘Alqualondë stock’, but was chastened following a sharp glance from Nerdanel that none of their sons caught.

While their mother examined Telvo to ensure there was no lasting damage, Carnistir sat beside him, holding his hand.

In bed that night, his father came into Carnistir’s room, sitting on the mattress’ edge.

“You took good care of your brother today Moryo. I am very proud of you.”

Fëanáro kissed him on the brow before leaving, and Carnistir slept with a smile painted on his face.

* * *

He was supposed to be with his tutor. Instead, Telvo was standing in Carnistir’s room, notebook clutched in one hand and the other tugging on Carnisitr’s tunic.

“I don’t understand them!”

So it had been the arithmetic tutor.

He could have ignored Telvo, could have gone back to his own work. It would have been easy to offload him onto Nelyo.

But he had come to _Carnistir’s_ room. That meant something.

Without a word to the contrary, Carnistir held out his hand, Telvo grinning up at his as the half-solved sums were delivered into his brother’s capable hands.

Tevlo scrambled up to sit in Carnistir’s lap. To Carnistir’s shock, he found that he didn’t mind.

* * *

Pityo was crying.

The heavy forests surrounding Formenos made the night seem darker, and no candles were lit in the mansion when Carnistir walked down the hallway, unable to sleep.

They had been exiled for thirty minglings of the trees. It had felt like three hundred.

Fëanáro had withdrawn from his sons, from himself, and spent most of his time constructing war weapons. Their entire household had been set on edge, and each of them seemed to pull away in an attempt to cope. For Carnistir, he had kept largely to his room, going through old word puzzles or working on his embroidery. But his room was becoming smaller and smaller, and he needed to clear his head, or else he would end up unleashing his temper on someone unsuspecting and likely innocent.

He almost missed his brother. Pityo had curled up into one of the alcoves which adorned the hall, and had drawn the curtain across so that, had Carnistir not been alone, walking lightly to avoid rousing the servants from sleep, he would have been left undisturbed and forgotten.

But Carnistir was alone, and walking quietly, and so he heard the stifled cries that his brother was trying to hide.

He pulled the curtain across, and Pityo’s face turned quickly, clearly terrified at having been caught. The night was cold and he was trembling.

Carnistir was not the only one to inherit his mother’s ruddy complexion. While his was the most pronounced, Ambarussa were both coloured akin to Nerdanel. And in that moment, Pityo looked even more so, for he had been crying for long enough that his face was red with it.

Voice barely more than a whisper, Carnistir addressed his brother. “Pityo?” It was disquieting, that he was alone, that he didn’t trust whatever this was with his twin.

If Carnistir thought that it would take prying for Pityo to open up to him, he was immediately proven wrong. His voice trembled as his words spilled out.

“I miss Ammë. I want her here.”

Carnistir’s stomach dropped. He missed Nerdanel too. Missed her warm presence and her firm voice. He missed the way she could calm their father down and how tightly she held each of them.

But she wasn’t there. She would never step foot in Formenos, for her resolve was as great as her husband’s, and he had disappointed her. She would not come. To see her, the sons would have to part from their father. It was not a choice any of them relished, partly because they had always known where they would go.

And so Carnistir could offer no words of comfort, for the sword had been drawn and their fates cast. This would be their life now, following their father in the absence of their mother. If it was folly, it mattered little. The time for reason had passed them by.

Still, Carnistir could not in good conscience leave his sobbing brother alone in the dark. With little ceremony, he draped the nightgown he had been wearing over Pityo’s shivering form, climbing onto the alcove to sit beside him.

“I miss her too.”

No more words were needed, and they sat together in silence and watched the silver leaves fade.

* * *

Pityo’s right arm was burned.

Cremated, really, was the better word.

Charred wood had fallen on him, meaning that the bone had to be set in addition to the burn being treated. Pale flesh had blistered away to reveal a horrible red colour that was still hot when Carnistir held his hand over it. There was an awful smell that accompanied the wound and a clear puss trickled down onto his hand.

Telvo seemed more upset over the whole incident than Pityo. Pityo just sat very still and glared at where the boats had once docked.

Carnistir gently picked away at the fabric that had been seared into the skin, trying not to break any of the wounds open any further

“You are a fool, Pityo.” There was anger in his voice, but his words lacked their usual bite.

No one wanted to think about what a close thing it had been, minutes ago. No one commented at their father’s oversight, at his failure to account for all his sons. There were _implications_ behind that, and they had all moved beyond the point of implications. There was no grey in the discussion, the way forward was clear, even if none of them wanted to look at it.

Pityo flinched when a large piece of his shirt was pulled away, and Carnistir wished that they had a balm, a healing ointment. But everything was muddled together, and the plants upon the new shore were foreign to them. Tyelko had hurried off to find any that were familiar, but Carnistir hadn’t wanted to wait for the skin to close up any. To wait meant re-opening the wound in the future, meant unnecessary pain. So he cleaned the burn up and didn’t pray, but hoped that Tyelko had retained enough knowledge from the huntsman to aid them.

“You didn’t stop him.” The words were the first he had spoken since the last ship had been consumed by the fire. It was jolting to hear them. Their meaning sank him and Carnistir worked very hard to fight the wave of guilt they brought on.

He could have claimed that he didn’t know what came over him, that their father had scared him, that he simply followed the examples of his older brothers as he had always been told to do. Some of it might even have been true. But his brother had nearly died, and Carnistir hadn’t stopped to consider his actions, their probable consequences. He had become caught up in the madness and watched with glee as the flames danced up the mast. He burned the ships and it had made him feel alive.

But there was still shame.

“Sorry.”

It didn’t seem like that would be enough. It shouldn’t have been. But Pityo didn’t look down, didn’t look away from the rolls of the ocean. Instead, he brought his other arm down to grasp Carnistir’s, and like that he knew that he had been forgiven.

* * *

The Long Peace stretched on.

They did not know that it was the Long Peace, they did not know that it was temporary. But they held a siege around Angband and Noldor kingdoms flourished so it was, for a time, peaceful. And that peace made them all selfish, made them all better.

Caranthir managed a realm to the far east of Beleriand. It was sloping, fertile land that hugged the blue mountains, and he saw wealth and prosperity spread amongst his people.

He saw his brothers occasionally; Maedhros’ mood could be dour, but there were finally some good days amidst the dark rest, and he did a fine job of pretending that his visits weren’t to check in on his brothers and make sure they weren’t doing anything grossly immoral or anarchist. Maglor was on a creative trend and Caranthir happily formulated excuses to avoid having to hear him. Celegorm made a fine habit of exploring the woods, occasionally joining with Ambarussa to made a sport of it, and Curufin spent his time interrogating Caranthir on his dealing with the Casari, taking a keen interest in their secret language for he was, as always, their father’s son.

There was an incident with an Edain tribe years before, and ever since there was a bright light in the west that also held his attention. Caranthir was not an optimist by nature, but he relished what his life was at that time.

Amabrussa visited the most frequently, and their company was as appreciated as it was irritating.

“Why is there money going to Ran— Wait, how do you say that? Ranvi?”

He had set aside that morning for checking his books. His youngest two brothers didn’t seem to care when they burst in and immediately started rifling through his things.

“ _Ranví._ ”

“Sure, alright, why’s there money going to Ranví?”

“Because Ranví’s family contributed financially to the building of the main trade road; he uses it frequently and so gets a cut of my proceeds as per our trade agreement.”

“Wait. Who’s giving _you_ money?”

“The traders who use the road. I have a taxation on it.”

“How many people use the road?”

“ _A lot_. Now can you please leave me alone so I can get some work done?”

Amras looked up from where he had architectural plans grasped between his hands, “But we hardly see you anymore Moryo!”

Amrod leaned across the desk, nearly toppling over an inkwell, “Just come out riding with us _once_. Please? We’ll even let you kill the boar!”

“Boar? What boar? Have you two chased a boar into my lands?” If they had, that would be more letters to write.

“No, of course not!” A glance was exchanged, “Not _intentionally_ anyway.”

Caranthir felt a vein on his forehead throb, “I hate hunting. It’s exhausting and dirty and you waste half the day standing about.”

Amras grinned back, “It’s a good thing we’re immortal then.” He turned more serious, voice becoming what was close to a whine, “Moryo _please_.”

Caranthir slammed down the book he was holding and tried to derive pleasure from the loud noise it made. “Fine! If it gets you to leave me alone and _do my work_ , I will go and kill the damned boar.”

Like that, the twins up and scattered.

“Fantastic! Be in the courtyard in one hour!”

The door closed resolutely behind them. He was going to have to invest in a lock.

* * *

The Lady of the Haladin was bold and brave and had caught Caranthir’s eye immediately.

He was left vaguely dizzy in her absence.

Caranthir was not technically allowed to travel so close to Brethil. But that was where Haleth dwelt, and he was the fourth child of Fëanor. He had never listened well to instruction. His trips had been happening for five years.

Caranthir didn’t plan to tell anyone about the Atan that held his heart. Yet the Ambarussa were always very good at interfering.

He was abused on his return from his latest visit. It was in the grey hours that signaled dawn, and two copper-headed Eldar had been seated at the castle’s gates, waiting for him.

The voice came from Caranthir’s left and if he had been a lesser _n_ _ér_ , he would have called out in fright. “Who’s Haladin?”

A second voice joined in, “And why is it that most of your outgoing mail addressed to them?”

Trying to calm his mount, Caranthir spun around to level the twins with his best glare. “Her name is _Haleth_ and none of your business!” His horse had stilled and so Caranthir was gathered enough to strike out at the closest twin, which unfortunately happened to be Amrod, who immediately clutched at his head.

“Ow! Moryo!”

“Stop nosing through my affairs! Do you not have land of your own to maintain?” It was beyond aggravating. No one was supposed to _know_. If they knew, then there would be questions, there would be judgments. There would be looks from Curufin and there would be advice from Maglor and he didn’t want any of it. This was _his_ and he held it dearly.

As always, they worked in tandem. “Yes, but the Nandor do most of the work really.”

“Anyway, this is much more fun. See how red your face has gone Carnistir!”

It was true, he felt his face heat under the scrutiny and it embarrassed him further. He felt like a child, sneaking out from his parent’s house. Then shame took him, for he didn’t _want_ to be embarrassed by Haleth. And he wasn’t, truly. But none of the Eldar had ever wed the Edain. He was angry because he was found out, and he was grieved over what it might lead to.

He turned from his brothers, marching into the courtyard and shouting back towards them. “Leave it!”

When they paced up to walk next to him, there was a sense of reproach in their stature. Amras’ words, when they next came out, were more measured. “Very well, nothing more shall pass our lips about ‘ _your lady’_.” True enough, it was the last they said on the matter.

They were terrible. He loved them fiercely.

* * *

Haleth died peacefully. Haleth died warm in her bed. Haleth died surrounded by her nephew and the people she had spent her whole life protecting.

Haleth died.

Part of Caranthir passed with her.

He had sat beside her at the end, in the little hours of the night, clasping a hand that had grown soft with age, so different from the flesh he first knew. The spotted and wrinkled skin has confused Caranthir. He knew, distantly, that Atani were mortal. That they aged and then passed beyond the world. But he had never seen the effects of the world’s years so clearly than when he looked upon his wife, small in her bed, too weak to hold him. It didn’t make sense, it was contrary to all he knew. Yet it was the truth, plain in front of him.

Haleth’s pulse slowed in his grasp before stopping entirely. The world turned dull and Caranthir’s heart broke.

She was buried according to Haladin customs, great stones marking where her body lay in the woods. The tribe retreated back to where their houses sat and Caranthir wandered through Brethil in a daze.

He slumped down beside a great oak tree and watched the grass for a long time.

This was the Doom of the Atani. In some ways, it was not unlike his own. An uncertain future, an everlasting darkness. Both of them separated forever.

Caranthir should have been cold, in the forest at night without a fire. But if his body froze, he did not register it. It was happening to his body, but not to him.

He was broken out of his stupor only by the sound of horses drawing closer.

“Moryo? Moryo!”

Ambarussa. Had he told them where he was going?

“Moryo, we—” Amras looked to his twin, lost. Amrod met his gaze. Why did they both look so frightened?

Amrod continued, “We heard about your lady.”

His lady? Oh. His wife. His dead wife.

His youngest brothers pulled closer, one on each side.

They didn’t say anything. Maybe they know that there aren’t any words. Nothing can make it better, nothing can bring her back. Nothing they say can bridge the divide between Eldar and Atani.

The sun rose through clouds, painting the world in blues and greys. It only grew colder and Caranthir kept his eyes on the grass, watched the morning’s dew collect on each blade before falling to the ground.

Amras gripped his arm then.

“Come, it grows too cold here for one as sensitive as I.”

Amrod stood, pulling Caranthir up onto unsteady legs. “Ambarussa is right. As cousin Finrod always says, things will be easier with a warm hearth and a full stomach.”

Caranthir saw the normality his brother offered and held it tight. “Finrod never said that.”

Amrod laughed. The sound was wrong, but it chased away the even more frightening silence. “Not to you! He was always scared of you, dear brother.”

Swinging his arm around Caranthir’s shoulder, Amras continued, “Scared of your temper run loose! Horrifying stories from Káno, we’re fairly sure.”

Caranthir could not force a smile, but he did not need to. His brothers led him out of the woods and towards his lands true enough, holding him firmly between them.

It didn’t fix it; nothing ever would. But it did make it, for the smallest time, a little bit better.

* * *

The world was on fire.

Dragons breathed down on them, orcs pulled children from their cradle and the world was on fire.

Caranthir had been woken from bed two hours before dawn with news that the siege had been broken, and Morgoth’s armies were close at hand. A defence had been mounted and, for a time, held. But black wyverns had crawled over Mount Rerir’s pass, and the waters of Lake Helevorn had turned dark and polluted. Foulness permeated the air. His land had fallen.

The twins had been staying at Helevorn, and were able to inform Caranthir of an old fort east of Ramdal which they could withdraw to. Unfortunately, this also meant that, in the chaos of evacuation, Caranthir quickly lost sight of them both.

Sprinting between falling debris and charred bodies, Caranthir completed one last sweep of the city before passing through the gates. To his relief, Amras was there waiting.

He instantly pulled his brother south when Amras froze in his spot, nails biting into Caranthir’s forearm.

“Wait! Moryo, wait! Ambarussa’s not here yet!”

Caranthir cursed under his breath before turning back towards the bedlam and towards his brother. He had to look after them. He was their older brother and he had to look after them.

He shook Amras in his grasp, summoning all the authority he could muster. “Stay here!”

Eldar were moving opposite to him, slowing him. He had to go faster. His inaction had almost cost Amrod his life once before. He would throw himself on his own blade before he let that happen again. He could not lose his brother. He had left his mother, his father was dead, Haleth gone too. Not one more loss would Caranthir suffer.

The crowd had just started to throng out, panic rampant through his body, closing his throat, when he heard a familiar voice.

“Moryo?”

By the treeline, helping a _n_ _ís_ treat her burn, Amrod stood, looking more confused than anything. Caranthir paced over, fists clenched, temper risen.

_“You!”_ He was going to hit him. He thought he was dead, gone to darkness along with everyone else. He was going to hit him.

When he reached his little brother, Caranthir’s arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug, and they both did not mention the wet patch that formed.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again.”

Amras was a heartbeat behind him. Morgoth’s evil spread but for now, they were safe.

* * *

They became refugees. A smaller people, fleeing from evil instead of facing it.

What Fëanor might have said, Caranthir no longer cared to consider.

Himring still stood, as Caranthir had guessed it might have. Maedhros would not let the Enemy take from him again. At least, not without a fight. In his most recent letter, Caranthir learned that Maglor was with him. All the better for Maedhros.

Word came from Finrod that Celegorm and Curufin were safe with him. It was only then that Caranthir let himself feel true relief, let the fear quiet once more.

Ambarussa lived with him permanently.

Amon Ereb became their home. It was well named, for another settlement could not be seen for miles in any direction. Instead, lowland bogs and soft mists were their only company.

If Caranthir had thought there would be a long adjustment period, he was fast proven wrong. They found an odd sort of pattern, and worked well together. Caranthir ran the administrative side of things, accounting for men and writing to allies, establishing a semblance of infrastructure. Amrod was the hunter, the fighter; a keen eye that worked to keep them fortified and fed. Amras had their mother’s charm, and used it to keep their people happy, to bring life to the dreary stronghold.

At night, they ate together in front of the fire that warmed but did not burn, and Caranthir learned better Amrod’s dark wit and Amras’ crude jokes. In turn, they saw the quieter side of their older brother; words of encouragement hidden behind gruff speech and a quick temper.

Amras flicked a grain of rice at his twin and in the laughter that followed, Caranthir became content with his life. It was simply the three of them like that forever, he would bear it with ease.

* * *

The good in his life did not last.

Maedhros grew confident, which is to say he grew complacent.

A Silmaril had been retrieved, snatched from the marrow of the Enemy himself. Stolen by an Atan and the Sindar princess who would become his bride. (When Caranthir learned this, he grew cold. Ambarussa glanced quickly at each other, then spoke instead of Casari movements). It was a good sign. As their uncle had shown before, Morgoth could be faced. Their task could be done.

So their eldest brother devised a plan together with the king. The six of them accepted this. Although, like the dispossession, some better than others. Caranthir rolled his eyes at Celegorm’s cries of protest, yet the oath called all the same, and he could not help but think that his brother had a point.

Still, Nelyo was the one that led them, and Nelyo was Nerdanel’s son. At least mostly. And so collaboration would be their game, and unity would win the day.

But the doom calls, and it didn’t.

Instead, Caranthir saw his men – he trusted these men, he had gathered Haleth’s people, but Haleth was not there and his guard was revealed and he was betrayed – turn against them. The Fëanorian host arrived late, and then the balrogs poured forth.

What followed was madness. But more than that, it was death.

Carnage erupted around him and the next few hours passed in a haze for Caranthir. He did not even register the orcs he killed, the grind of metal against bone or the heat of blood.

He came back to himself only when the signal blew for a full retreat. The field was quit, the day lost. It was crushing, and Caranthir was wise enough to know that it was just as bad as it looked.

Their host re-grouped, the only thing to go according to plan, and it was only then that Caranthir realised that he had not seen his brothers since the fight began. Fear took him as he pushed through the throngs of injured and dying. He looked for any brother, but he also looked for copper hair.

Defying all reason, he found it. Amrod holding his twin up, the only thing keeping him from sinking it seemed. Where the rest were, Caranthir did not know, but his youngest brother was hurt, and at that time, that took priority.

He went to pull them both into an embrace before pausing and taking a sharp breath at the sight before him. He battled down a wave of nausea.

Amras’ eye was gone.

It was not the worst injury the family had suffered – they had all seen Maedhros, after all – but the fact that it was Amras, the baby, was stark because it was so painfully out of place. The twins were always supposed to stay out of their older brothers’ fights. How many times had their mother warned them that they were small? That they were young? Eru’s breath, their _mother_. And Caranthir was their elder. It was his job to protect them, he should have protected them. But instead, they were hurt. Because it was _his_ men that betrayed them all.

Ambarussa noticed him, and tears budded in Amrod’s gaze at the same time Amras’ hand flew out to grab at him, curling into bent chainmail. Years had passed, but he was still taller than both of them. Caranthir clung to that fact like a drowning man to driftwood.

Caranthir felt weak. He was relieved and weary and angry all at once. All he could do was cup their cheeks, petting uselessly at them and spitting out in a voice that was stronger than he was, “Come now, it is not so bad. Between Pityo’s arm and your eye, people should no longer have trouble telling you apart.”

It was ridiculous. It was absurd and manic and stupid. So that was why the three of them burst into uncertain laughter, dancing closer to the flame.

Soon after, Maglor appeared.

Fingon was dead. They were under express orders to not mention it.

Angband’s forces spilled out into land they had reclaimed. The only thing left to do was flee.

They marched on, defeated, away from the Noldor’s ruin.

* * *

The rest of their brothers lived in the keep now and Caranthir hated it.

Maglor moped about, strumming dreary half-song on the harp. Celegorm terrified the staff and returned from the woods covered in blood. Curufin hovered near him constantly, short, mean comments constantly on his tongue. Maedhros spent his days sitting very still in front of the fire, or in the dark of his room, or in random corridors with his dark gaze fixed on the horizon. Caranthir refused to admit that it scared him.

Through it all, he tried to maintain normality. Some dwarves still talked to them, so he sent soldiers in an attempt to maintain the trade route. When they were all killed, he compensated their next of kin and sent a pittance to Belegost.

Amrod sat with him long into the night, listening absently as Caranthir talked him through embroidery patterns.

Amras hovered every time he went to work, fetching quills and parchment and lost letters.

It was quiet, every unspoken word echoed between the seven of them.

Then, one day, Celegorm stood to address their leader.

The end closed in.

* * *

From the start, it went wrong.

On the borders of Doriath, some of their men deserted. It was understandable, none crossed the sea to pillage the innocent.

Still, it put Celegorm in a foul mood, and weakened their morale. Maedhros pressed on. He was their leader and even if it wasn’t his plan, he was the head of their house and his responsibility was to carry it as if it was.

Caranthir hoped it may even waken him up.

The resistance of Menegroth was fiercer than they had anticipated. It appeared that Dior had managed to restore some semblance of order to the broken land. That fact did little to relieve Caranthir of his guilt.

The plan had been to remain together, and to face Dior with a unified force – Maglor had even half-heartedly pushed for a final attempt at diplomacy – yet as soon as Celegorm spotted the king, he splintered off from the rest of them, either chased or reinforced by Curufin.

After that, it did not take long for the Sindar forces to break their already weakened line. The Fëanorians may have come away lightly from the Nirnaeth, but that was only relative to Fingon’s host. They had been greatly depleted in number.

Caranthir realised they were in trouble when he lost sight of Maedhros. For all that he had disagreed with his eldest brother over the years, for all that Angband had fractured their relationship, he was still the best fighter amongst them. He was the leader, and he could turn a battle. But Caranthir could not see him, for someone had started a fire.

The smoke burned at his eyes, and he struggled to tell their army from Menegroth’s. Dread settled over Caranthir. Fire had not been the plan, none of it had been the plan. It was supposed to be clean, in and out before the sun could set. There wasn’t supposed to be so much resistance, the Sindar were supposed to be intimidated by their host, to surrender the Silmaril in fear if diplomacy could not make them. He cut the throat of another soldier, kicking them aside to try and find a path.

Through the haze of fire and bodies, he spotted a head like burnt copper. His chest lifts, because Amras was there, they could still salvage this, they could find the Silmaril and—

There’s an arrow. There’s an arrow aimed at his brother.

It’s not an easy choice, for there is no choice. None at all.

* * *

The battle had been chaos from the start.

Amras ducked as more Sindar came at him. He had lost sight of Amrod not long ago, and that was enough to upset his fighting. That and he still was not used to vision in only one eye.

It was likely for that reason that he missed the archer in his blind spot.

Another elf fell, dead, and Amras went to march forward but he was stopped by an almighty weight that hit his side and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Amras landed hard on the stone floor, teeth driven through the soft flesh of his tongue and he turned to strike at the person responsible but then he saw the elf lying in front of him and his eyes widened.

They were supposed to stick together, they were supposed to be more careful.

Instead, his older brother (aside from Amrod it was his favourite brother, for Amras remembered every treat saved, every cut healed, every hurt mended; he remembered his life, and in every fragment of it, Moryo was there, the calm in the middle of the storm) was lying face down in a growing pool of blood, an arrow’s shaft protruding from his back at an awkward angle.

Amras turned and saw where the soldier stood. A Sinda elf, visibly confused at the last selfless act of the Noldo invader and Amras _leapt_ at him with a feral cry. He didn’t have time to make it last, to make it _hurt_ , for every second he wasted, Moryo sunk closer to death and that could not happen. Amras wouldn’t allow it.

He rushed to sit Caranthir upright, brushing tacky and clumped locks of hair out of his face.

“Moryo. _Moryo!_ Why did you do that? How could you be so _stupid? Moryo!_ Brother, please. Look at me!”

But his words went unregistered, for Caranthir was already dead. His mouth partway open, as if there had been some final message, a last name, heard only by the earth.

Amras started to scream. He didn’t register when Amrod found them, didn’t hear a second voice which joined the clamour.

Caranthir was dead, and nothing else they did that day mattered.

* * *

They buried their brothers just outside of Doriath. It would have been an insult to all to disturb the ground within the Sindar lands.

Three mounds of earth rested side by side, and four remained where once there had been seven.

The funeral, if it even could be called that, occurred in silence. Rage still radiated from Maedhros, yet it lacked direction, focus. Before they left, he made them raise two cairns. Nothing more was said about it.

Maglor wept quietly; lost and grieved without the energy to turn outwards. He had been the one to find where Celegorm and Curufin lay, not three feet away from the other.

Amras wanted to rage and fight, wanted to hunt the survivors down even then. He finally understood his father’s drive for revenge, the burn that had been passed to each of them. Amrod just wanted to go home.

The brothers turned and left the graves to collect the falling snow.

Ambarussa led the rest of their forces back to Amon Ereb, and the fortress was so much emptier than before.

They left only once, the next day, to find the remains of a cairn raised in the quiet of Brethil’s trees.

Beside it, they buried a lock of dark hair and an unadorned gold ring.

They said no words and soon turned back, leaving the forest with its secrets.

* * *

Amrod left the world. Like always, Amras was not far behind him.

They were twinned. They would not be separated so easily.

The Halls were cold, and they were dark. But still, Ambarussa found the other quickly, hands clasping together as they began to process their fate.

There was complete bleakness surrounding them, and a terrifying silence that froze them in place. They had failed. Now, they knew not what would come next.

Panic began to fringe on their minds before the wrenching silence was broken by a loud voice directed at them.

“You little _fools_. Dying as I did? After all the work I have done to prevent otherwise? Surely I have raised you better than that.”

The voice was rough and angry and so familiar that tears filled their eyes as they turned towards it.

Before Caranthir could speak again, his arms were full with two identical Elda.

All he had the strength to do was tighten his grip.

**Author's Note:**

> casari – quenya name for the dwarves
> 
> title comes from "always gold" by radical face


End file.
